at the clinical laboratory
i have seen how a beautiful woman with long blond-dyed hair
stings the guy seated next to him

she calls him not with his name but some other word
that is so degrading

the man's eyes changed from sun to moon,
his mind wants to howl like a jackal but he keeps his restrained silence

he loves another anyway and she will just be a waste of time
for another useless argument.

old age

the fishes are lifeless on the pond,
the moss and the water hate each other
the spider no longer walks on top of the water
and hangs itself from the coconut leaf
in the middle of the air

some children use to fish here and now
the arrive and not seeing any ripple at all
or bubble
not seeing the reflection of the blue clouds
the children leave and look for
some other ponds with fishes to give

they do not bother throwing their lines here
the worms will be useless

he looks at himself intently like
he were a stranger,

trying to find out how time, they say,
distorts the personal truths in each of us,

his face is square, used to be, but it looks like
a triangle now, tip extended like a boat on sail,
his lips from reddish cherry have turned into
gray, heavy clouds,
his beard has grown into a forest attracting
monkeys and birds, and so is his hair unwed to chaos
before but lives with such a confused mistress,
his eyelids droop heavy with problems,
his eyelashes do not have the waves of the pacific,
his chin the arrow before has become the
bow,

he looks at his eyes with veins like craters of the moon,
and asks: why did he ever do such a mess?

i've met two kinds of
i'm sorries,
one is short and scheming and
escaped from the
gallows of the just and
the noble,

the other, got caught in the
clutches of his conscience
and with a self-inflicted gunshot wound
said the sentence
and finally rested in peace.

keeping what is due us
has always been our noble art,
sometimes we are counted as the
foolish few, not having anything to brag
except our not much spread
diary on integrity,
we have not multiplied much and
most of you hint that perhaps our lineage
is cursed, but we do not mind much talk really,
our revered silence is another noble
outdated technology,
we also give what is due to all of you,
keeping in mind, that the Goddess of Good Karma
is not asleep, but just sitting in patience,
slow paced, and cautious not to harm
the unwanted harmful grass.

we are patient too, and spiders inhabit
in the webs of our overworked eyes,
we are mocked, and we lower down our gaze
to the feet of the earth
we always get rain with the rain
scorched, nevertheless by the sun
but we are still thriving, despite.

one day, we shall hear about the death of laughter
and what we can always show and still be proud of
is our restrained smile.

the conversation last night
was the beginning of our own claim
that after all
our words do not really speak
for ourselves,

that what we are, shall,
remain unannounced,
we keep it, like an opinion,
we have diaries, with black
hard covers, that every night
we open and
make some more
Notes,

there are surprises within
without, there are only the boredom
of routines

i am not responsible for
what you believe,
i am only, a limited territory
for what i am.

finding the self in the self
gives you the wrong path

do not look to the stars
you are never there

look at the ground and
touch the hand of the blind
talk to the mute and be
the ears of the deaf

only can you find your eyes
in their eyes
your hands can feel the
warmth
that is not found within the
lines of your palms
only then can you hear
the sounds of your longing
that you can only understand
from their hunger

yourself is not in yourself
it is in the other
your heart is not in your
chest
it is in the emptiness of
another.

one's fixed finally
like a fly
on that sticky paper
unable to remove
its legs from
those limitations

the wings are useless
the winds are of no help
the wings of the the mind
cannot uplift
where the body is stuck
with the connivance
of the pelvis
and the hands

dichotomy...
that gap between the
flesh and spirit

must be dovetailed
by a prayer of mercy
the faith that makes
us sleep
when the eyes are
too weary

at the entrance
the door smiles and
wish you come in
with a promise that
inside there will be
no trouble....

seduced you get
in, and ...

screams are heard
later and the
the silence of
those guesses....

we wonder what
takes you so long
finding the right
exit

we who are not
enticed by the entrance
cannot wait for
you anymore

we shall now go
away

the last day in your life
is in your mind

when the mind shuts up
then that is it

the last day is at the tip
of the last word
that slips from out of your
tongue
that in a minute you
remember
but in the last second
you forgo
because it is just it

ping!

the more poems there are,
the shorter shall be the length of
life to live

this shall be proven by those
who write everyday
the next day,

the mosquitoes whose bellies
are bloated with blood
do not know how to murmur
anymore

did you say they sing at night
with you on their empty
stomachs?

and out of jealousy, you
snap them
and blood (money) spills
on the calloused
portion of your palms.

creativity also says with both hands
banging its chest
"there is so much to do but there is
less time to do it"

living is always only for the moment
tomorrow is just a thought just like yesterday
a moment not remembered
the other one does not like to remember

"we mellowed down" quips the ripe
pomelo which has only a minute more to go
before it lands on the grass below.

"we didn't even have life" concludes the stone
stuck on the ground

"we are human beings, spare us some
more time; we have unfinished business"
thus pray the senior citizens
at Abbey Home.

experiment #1

yes, we put the mongo seed
inside a carboard box and
there is no opening, not even
a peeping hole,

on the other same sized carboard
box with another similar mongo seed
an orifice is made,

the two sprouted but the one
with the opening finally finds
its exit and we meet the word
heliotropic as discussed by
the late mrs. villasica,

that was years ago,
we were then in grade six
at that time, and
martial law was declared
and there were those who
disappeared
those who finally became
mad, literally
no metaphor intended

then i learned such words
hamletting,
summary execution
government persecution
zoning
martial law babies,

i turn to the mongo seed
experiment without an orifice
deprived of light
though given water
and soil to thrive,

the cardboard box and
the dream of the borrowed light
of the moon

because there is no sun
because there is utter deprivation
we go for dreams as substitute
some died in that hunger strike

at least, dubbed as the child of the
borrowed light of the moon,
one still keeps writing and the other
one still keeps reading

call them the surviving
lunatics

not in the literal sense now
but sort of, in a lighter sense
metaphoric.

the curse...

<sup>as you must have observed,
she speaks, in tatters, disconnected
but transparent, and
transcendent, having that grip of
psychic possession,
witnessing what passed
and what shall come

have you read about such words
as awe, horror and pity?
and the helplessness that follows
next,
those frightened sing and
always will be unable to understand
her,
she goes backstage,
with the fall comprehension of
what's there waiting

her own murder.</sup>

there will always be more things
to say,
in some sense, not to be oblivious,
about the unconcern of the obvious,
he resorts to her
metaphors, the story of the breasts
and the nipples,
the middle part that speaks
about the strong caressing hands
and the ready pelvic bones
giving heads and
tails
making odds out of the given
evens,
all these, could be in the realm of
nothing but imagination
but which you who watch this man
daily
finds every bit a
bite of reality

Amy once says
what we write need not be about
us, and when we speak of us,
it need not be
we, and we need not be you and
I.

It is this universe that gets inside
the pouch of our hearts
pounding the sounds of calls
not really of help but
of expression

it is there, and had always been
there,
always waiting
to be told.

in a sense, we must,
not you and i, be sentient,
to become sensible.

about cassandra

"She evokes the same awe, horror and pity
as do schizophrenics", an observer has noted,
"who often combine deep, true insight
with utter helplessness,
and who retreat into madness."

facing the stones that
rise into figures of her own horror
she goes outside
and asks for the help of
someone who must believe her
there is no one
and that is the main agony
of her days
turning instantly into nights.

the tales of passion
are here again

i listen to Isabel
on her feminist stance

evocative
of future actions

the woman planting
trees in Africa
the others who
showed strength
in detention
saving their girls
the artist who advises
to keep the
good posture
and never cough

in sum
i am amazed on this
lazy Sunday
as i am looking for
words too
relevant to this passion
this existence
that rambles
and grasps for
the meaning of the word

i.

the town as usual
misses the noise of the
microphone
wanting to see boxing
bouts not just during
the Feasts
but also on ordinary days

this only second
to gambling
these fighting cocks
that dominate
the itinerary
of the month and all
the poor men gather
and try their luck
to get rich
even for a day

the church is nearby
and its bells are silent
copy paste
the silence of the
cemeteries

radically, when i was ten
i was honest, and the old folks
are alarmed
when the guests are insulted
about their
truths: like the middle aged
woman is stealing our
garlic
the man with a black hat
is ugly
or this house is dusty
and the roof leaks

Mama often tells me
to keep my mouth shut
but then i haven't
learned much
on such ambiguity that of
having to speak the truth
and on one hand
to hide it

at this age now
respect has become the
brother of lying
Papa is the model of
restraint
that when nothing is good
to be said
i better be silent
to survive
to make the system work
to be at one with
the world
and just be another
walker, breather,
cooperative soul
lest the family suffers
or meet
premature political
death

i like Ted's wife when
she says: Fuck you!

Amy is right
in the glass universe
you put on luck and fate
and randomness
serendipity
not much on the
intellect or the answers
but on the
incomplete matters
questions that ask
why am i here?
what is my role?
mix them all together
with a stirring
rod of anxieties
on the solid base of
the past
and there you it
such a juicy
creativity.

despite the noise outside
the exhilaration of the crowd
somehow we manage to remain
as intact
parts of the whole
rejoicing in our silence amidst
the noise of the world
the clumsiness of our outlooks
vis-a-vis the
ineptness of the system
well, what do we really look for?
this is just a short journey
we keep it crisp like a newly fried
fish chip
savoring the taste of our salt
passing time
watching the passage of others
our joys

we both have nothing to say
and we love it this way
only our hearts speak and feel
the mind has long surrendered
logic fails, reasoning gave us the
runaround
what our hands are doing are
simply opening to what is given
before us: doves hovering upon our
heads and then gently landing on our
palms.

when you go to bed
you feel the crumpling of thoughts
and you begin to whirl like
a planet out of its orbit
but there is not a rapid heartbeat
the moment your body touches
the bed
you fall asleep

familiarity with sorrow
and learning to play with the hands of
time
all these, make you a learned man
no fears, nothing expected.

soon you get attuned
to nothingness
there is nothing to see and
feel at the end
smoke is all that is found
outside
inside then everything
disappears
and what you hear is just
the fading sound of
your last word

nice logic....

if you do not want the cat to climb
your table and eat your chicken legs

then put it down the floor.

in my youth i saw flying plates
broken glass lamps, wasted rice grains,
invectives and curses were always
the sounds of the house,

i promise not to copy and paste
those things, sad,
disappointing, unfortunate human
conflagrations of the innocence
of some souls,

now i am free.

i listen to nobody but only the voices within me
it is peaceful, every event embroidered with logic
and reason,
searching for more wisdom
listening more than talking

i am staying and i like it this way now

the shells of the past were burned
the ashes thrown to the belly of Dipolog river.

let me put it this way

the procession always leads back
to the door of the church

and that will be the same matter
concerning your lapses with Gale

you are, for the meantime in the arms
of another
and he also in the arms of some
rumors

but soon these arms become numb
and the feet shall march back to where you

first started, the shoes fit again,
and both of you, embarrassed
with what your final words deny

back into each others' arms we
close our eyes
do not mind us
our hearts rejoice
to see love once again sprouting...

a heavy rain
a dark night

inside the comfort
of a room with
walls of wood

a shadow sings
silence

the monitor sucks the energies of
creation, and you who face this phenomenon
of addiction of having to write despite
the odds,
becomes a very dry parchment of
crocodile skin
removed from its fierce body
all sharpness pulled out
and on helpless gums
one must learn how to survive
under the hot suns of
loving.

these thoughts
are like the afternoon
beside the sea
there is a storm and
the waves are
as big as my rage
against a rock
that is never cracked
despite

my head keeps on
banging something that
is unbearable
indestructible

my love is like that rock
and so lies my rage
like the waves.

a place is interesting because of the stories that you have heard before.
for instance, this bed is where this man and that woman first made it.

this house is deserted because once a fire broke here
and chaos is born, and chaos wears a mask and since then people do not recognize its face.

a name to you is interesting because your mother tells the story of that name.
the spelling has a history about a rumor and you love rumors.

shall i say that you pretend that you like to have a talk with him
because you like to gather some flowers from his garden?

that is a nice objective. Flowers are always a delight at the center table.
the earth appears to be thirsty of conflicts. That is a misinterpretation.

The deserted path knows better. No one really cares what one does with his feet.
The moon knows it all. But look, it simply shines and does not tell you anything.

For secrets have always been nuggets. They must remain buried.
When dug again and shaped into different forms, that is where the definition of hell comes out.

I am not the one saying this anyway. Quite harsh.
Hell is other people. And i am one of its delicate flames.

the man is actually a bird
(though his wings are made invisible by this words)

it is ready to fly and fly high and
away from all the islands and trees

dreaming of a desert of stones and sands
and become a wanderer without water testing if

a bird somehow survives this new dimension
clouds all, air abundant, horizons unlimited, space and space

the space that husbands always tell their wives
at night when sleep is strange

the wall which had always longed to talk
keeps on mocking, why will it always be about birds and stones?

deafening silence
redeeming solitude, these are the reasons

don't you feel that moving away is also a diversion
from things that are too near that looks like a rope that is choking?

(sigh) love those stony stings.

to pry upon his weakness and to discover
some artifacts from his house is her past time

and every hour when there is a break from the
wanton hours and the monotonous menu of the day

she opens the usual window and watch what the
worm is doing inside the terrarium

she records the possibility that this can be a landmark
of history and significant for what others say as a phenomenon

other people's lives matter
and sometimes the worm that looks at her too asks: why?

the worm, and she does not know this, is also prying upon her
her shrinking breasts, her skin that looks like dry tobacco leaf

her life that to the worm has become more of a raisin
stuffed inside a boxed, with a history of having been dried by the sun

the worm is fair though, in its latest description
she is still sweet though neutral in smell, and deserves still to be liked to be eaten someday

p.s. the worm remarks, kids will like her.

and there is a big black bird

actually the neighborhood calls it the crow
with red eyes

the children who ask
do not know where it really comes from

it is staying by the window and feeds on
the noise of a couple who discuss about divorce possibilities

it likes the way the children carry on the
confusion about where to go and whether they are loved

the housemaid is driving it away
but it doesn't have that capacity

there is a wound in its heart and its wings
are clipped off from the sickness of
indecision

it loves to watch the way how the housemaids
are stealing stories from their masters

it is quite a long time now and the wound is healed
and the wings have grown to their original sizes

it is ready to fly away but it cannot
it loves the show of other peoples miseries and concealed motives

the black bird's first name is everyday
and its surname is everyone.

a mocking bird
sits on a branch of a tree
that fronts the house that
papa made

papa is gone.

a mocking bird left but one
sunny day

after the heavy rains for months
the mocking bird comes back

it is bringing silence
unlike all the other mocking birds
in town

the mocking bird is dead
a boy abandoned by his mother
stoned it

now the window if you walk a little
distant from the house
and sit on a bench across the road
looks like a Cheshire cat
giving Alice that fable smile.

if time can only be cupped by hands
i would like it to be solid
rock, i will hold it, and sculpt it
like the way they,
artists, enter eternity, through
the door of things,

but time is not solid, it is liquefied gas
you breathe it and then
it exhales upon all the holes of
our emptied beings

in the classroom
i offer words, i stand and make a point
and write an accent

this is it, this is important
this is above all

i have strokes, all BOLD
i bang the board with

emphasis, i am doing this
not for myself, i am solid.

liquefying all of your dreams
letting you see shapes

i sit upon a load of stars.
i stand and touch an orbit.

all of you are my children.
i have none.

doubts of the scalp
and so i scratch it with my nails.
holes of infection,
itchy life, and
fallen hairs.

the goddess of smell
looks upon me,
and i look up to taste
what smell is it.

it tastes like heaven,
my usual answer.

what is heaven? they all
laugh.

my eyes lift higher
eyelashes are top loaders.


sleep is a conqueror
i am conquered but the surrender

is de-stressing
tomorrow i have a plow
and a buffalo

i own this land i remind
the grasses

tomorrow
i need to vacate, i guess

a trip, a very long long trip
where your sight cannot find me

your trains of emotions are
grounded
i have an avalanche of
forgetfulness.

so? got no word for you
except my well sculpted

goodbye baby, after all,
our worlds are galaxies apart

light years that you must know
by now.

i look at the child
at the farther nook of a old house.
there is no chair and beside the door
is a box, it is empty
and the child in fear
took its hiding there
a favorite place
safety box, safe house,
the four corners are
so silent
and the child is happy
asleep in a moment.....


time travels like horses with wings.

there is a man
with a long bird his toenails
are long, no time to cut them

it throat is swollen
bacterial infection again
or the weather changes
cold this time then hot in
a moment
dusts all over the place
and white painted houses

it is lonely, child and man
at the same time
and not one of him speaks
they become one box
and one flap opens to
a sky

always there are
no extra hands. it is reality.

there is an old man
with words of thread
sewing upon its lips.

there is a very dark night.
the child, the man and the old man
are asleep
inside a box, safe and
silent.

there is no morning.
it is final.

slowly, our ways part.
we used to be a pair of bangs.
beautiful hair, many talk about us
then we slowly part,
it is a style and people love it too
the neighbors talk for a while.
but the parting looks good
it's trendy.

then it rains and the hair
become fragile hands grasping
every skin on the forehead.

the parting is forgotten.
each lock is busy on saving itself.
trying to survive with what is so cold.

these are the days.
the sunshine is gone.

and people do not mind anymore.
they too have hair problems of their own
whatever is the trend
bangs or parting or sheen
go on.. until the falling, until the head
takes pride of
being bald...another trendy thing.

all i did was to protect
rights, i tackled the corresponding obligations.
I am a model citizen.
I teach laws.

a group of giants laugh at me
there is no trampling still, i wait.
their feet are heavy and one foot
one stamp is enough
to wipe me out. I am an ant.
I have not anthill to live.

it never saddens me
and i got enthralled by one of you.
ready to offer
everything i have.

i know how to climb trees
i challenge on of those ivory gods.
the tree gods wait and become curious.
what is this red ant up to?

i will have a good ride on a dry leaf
feel the fallen state
and write about it.

i could be human only if you want to.
she says, don't... we hate humans.
we are ivory towers and we do not feel.

i will be a red ant. The dry leaf is dead.

An enemy

you were behind me and
i looked back at you
you evaded me like we were
two ships in an inevitable
collision.

I am not afraid.

Got no lighthouse or
Port to land this small ship.

You have a continent
Scattered islands
You own lighthouses
Fierce lights and
Friend of the storms.

I am never afraid of you.
I have nothing to lose.

You walk ahead of me
And i hear your laughter.

You are the tower
Her God, and she is my wife.

I am still not afraid at you
I can look at you direct to the eye.

Soon you will die.
That is His promise.

that it is nigh time
and morning time at the same time
is not at all false.
look at us, at the extreme,
we are.

this morning is mine
yours is the night and
we are talking.

tomorrow morning
yours shall be that evening
as i walk away from this door
and close it
you shall arrive and open it
and close it again

as i gamble in the light
you shall ponder in the dark
we can never be together
again
in a dado joint.

on the blank pages
i write nothing
on the wall i write
nothing
i only speak and
then leave
when i arrive here
i carry nothing and
thus give you nothing
when the hour comes
for departure
i travel light
as light as air passing
by your window
i take nothing too
for

empty handed i come
and empty handed shall i go

did you say that too
cynth?

for what is poetry? did i tell you that it is
merely defecation and all i excrete are
trash, garbage, e coli?
you keep on saying
i disagree, i completely disagree
i am recollecting your pieces and put them
in an album and i will make
a publication, ...jesus!
socrates did not write a word.
Jesus neither.

( i am not what they were.
i am just a sigh, a sort of
a morning exercise, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale
thing)

and stephen king who says he does not write
but all these are still here...
silly life, silly life, looking for a wall
and a spray net, spray, spray, write on the
wall, draw on the wall,
keep things intact, mementos, refreshing meal
of the river of time.

i do not know. I keep on telling.
chanting. I got no book of my own.
I have nothing to own.
Let no word come back to me
and tell me
" i am your creation
and you are my papa"

for at the end i shall deny all of them
for i do not belong here neither to somebody
nor some reason.

pilgrim am i. in this river of time.
leaf.

or, do not try
that trick of closing the garage
turning on the engine of
your car and breathe
that eunuch carbon monoxide,
you are not
Anne Sexbomb.

do not ever think that
putting your head in the oven
does magic
to the blandness of your poetry.
copycat.

what is regret?
in this party, i never invite it,
comes hope in full gown
well scented and full of
fresh flowers on her hair,
come fidelity as formal as
ever with diamond necklace
and golden brooch,
comes truth in candid poses
skimpy and cleavage exposed
wow legs, skinny backless
bare and daring cheekbones,
comes trust
regal gown and sprayed firm
dovetailed hair,
where is regret? that sad woman
wanting to be in,
i call the guards not to let her in
for she is a contagion
and does not deserve to be
here in this dancing hall of
my life
turn on the music
and let the dance in circles begin.
maestro!

the river

it is not the rage of this river.
when i was a child, as mother says,
i keep my finger inside my mouth
sucked by my throat, to keep hunger away
beside the bank of this river

i am the spectator
and the river believes in the magic
of my innocence
it flows always in a distant
affection,

it is not the rage of the river,
it is i, the grown up man who goes swimming
in the river and feel
the joys of its cool waters
always moving on towards
a destination
it is the swimming with a friend
and then
with a lover and then with a wife
and then my silence,

what we do not have we force to forget
it is the bathing in the river
the rinsing and the cleansing of the waters
it is not the rage of this river

and then we become too weak to be in this river
the river moves on and on
towards the deepest sea looking for the
opening

i wait by the bank of this river
many things have been missed
the more important ones
the one that gives the posterity of
my humanity
it is denied of me because of this river
that gives me nothing

all the while i was the leaf that fell off from
the tree
on the side of this river
and i floated because i have nothing to do
because i can do nothing about
the flow of the river
i become the dead leaf that the air
rides upon
tossed and bumped on boulders
till i sink
deep down the river
that i shall pass only once.

time.

our chants...

these are the rainy nights
the rainy nights and they all warn about
a blackout,
expect landslides, let not your children
go to school,

these are the figures of speech for the
heavy rain,
outside this big house, the strong smell of paint
shares the pride of the patter

actually, one shadow tries to make sense that
it is owned by another body,
for how can shadows exist if there is nothing
tangible as flesh and bones? but the light says
i own you, i only reflect you from that
perceived owner of your existence
for without me behind this mass,
you are nowhere to be found,

the rain keeps mocking the road,
striking each corner with a hundred hammers
proclaiming alliance with clogged canals,

how does one make sense with metaphors of rains
and heaviness of feelings? overflowing rivers and
the embracing arms of the seven seas?

how does the rain pour and be relieved of the
problems of that great space, dark and limitless
horrible to the understanding of the limited man?

how come we are all scattered thoughts unable to form
a dissertation? life is simple. Life can be simple. As you must like it.

how do you like life? You are complicating the equations
threatening calculus without solutions.
how life must be liked? how unreasonable do we really become?
how cowardly do we embrace that sometimes
there is nothing more that we can grasp and then we
say: Lord, i love you with all my heart and soul and mind.

we are limping. Lame, broken bone. Feet of different lengths
Tipsy boats. Uneven universe. Twisted bridges of
life's codes. Blind, and Deaf structures.

We believe in one God. That is our chant against the wizards of
Ouch.

after writing poems late at night.

I see her turning off the light
on the table. I can see gray.
I hear her
folding the books and
crumpling the papers
perhaps her drafts
of a letter or
a composition.
I see her stand, leave the chair and the table,
and i hear the closing of the door.
everything turns dark.

i imagine her lying in bed
she closes her eyes

i know that the light inside the room
is open.

as usual the TV is on with no one watching.
i just know it. It is a habit
and it has become a practice and that
when i follow, i must be felt
when i turn off the light
and when i turn off the TV.

I know she is awake.
But i do not mind

we all pretend we are alive and that
we want to sleep.

we fall on the same mistake.
we sleep always late, and we do not talk about it.

i put my hands around her body.
she tilts her body and finds her own direction

her own dreams
not mine.

what is shorter than short?
bluer than blue?
the pale shade of
humility?
what is life short of life?
what is it that does not really
please?
what comes before death
what is it that lives after?
what was there before
we were born?
what permission have i given?
what is the reason for asking
undefined questions?
what limit can i put beyond
my expectations?

what if? i do not.

Thursday.
got a headache on Wednesday
Tuesday was bad,
and Monday was unforgiving.
negative energies are always here with me.
There is a maggot feasting on the poisoned rat.
I poisoned it last week, and days are not
that efficient to kill it without seeing
another light.
It died inside the cabinet causing us
too much disturbance.

Friday, another poem.
I hate sadness. I expect redemption.
But Friday is another usual Friday.
It cannot forget that poisoned rat
that died on a Thursday.

Saturday, i will be away on a boat
crossing the sea towards an island

Sunday, again
there is no church, It is the mountain again
No, not calvary.
It is my day with the working people.
I will eat with them
It is the day after my
5oth birthday

nothing big. 50 is nothing
but a number inferior
to 60.
So what is the big deal?

i am still, no matter what,
lengthwise or
side-wise, i am still another
dust,

unseen fungus on
the scalp of another
unwashed head.

you are sociable, articulate,
you speak and remember, you are both
a mouth, and
a memory, and so you keep albums,
black and white pictures,
everything that your dad wrote,
every piece makes you
remember
the greatness in us, of us,
all about us, and i say, all these self-serving
keepings, what are they for?

footprints in the sand... waves are eternally
erasing everything, the activity is always
covering

this is the origin of all that is new
fresh and beautiful, we give way, they all come,
we hide behind those furrows,

we are underneath the sheets,
we are the other last layers of those striated formations
no one digs us, we are buried,
some archeologists make the findings

(sigh) we are not what they are saying
how can we live for another 500 years?
tell me.

the mirror is always a good metaphor
for solitude, on cold nights, the mist sticks
on the glass,
despite the coldness
in solitude
you sweat, there is heat inside you
warm body, groping hands,
the mirror faces you, blames you
and ask: where have you been
for all those years?

(sigh, emote, undress,
on uncut pubic hair, somehow you manage
an attitude of
purity)

i am here with you.
all these years.
i am. Faithful as a
rose tattoo.

to be candid, i do not intend
to grow old with some dead leaves
on that cold pond,

i am not your haiku,
i am the elegy of the middle aged man
who leaves an oral tradition

a poetry to the world
with no trace of any lyric

i already sound like a dirge
dig it.

Oedipus well demonstrated that
since his eyes did not see the truth
then they are of no use and so
he plucked them off their sockets

self-inflicted punishment with
him as judge

faraway from what this college of law
is teaching: this doctrine of self-preservation

due process, and equal protection
the right of the accused to life to lie
the right of his lawyer to lie for him
the poisonous tree and its fruits
benefit him to freedom

justice is a child without a mother
on tattered clothes, foul and begging on the streets

emaciated, lost and tomorrow
shall die.

every written word
takes away a part of me

i am chipped off
bit by bit

an eyes is missing
an ear is cut off

as i appear before you
my mirror

i become incomplete
because i am always giving

and i walk away
my hair is cut and some locks fall

faraway from misgivings
i sit beside a clear pool of water

there are no ripples
the moon is full

darkness subsides
and then i am full.

the green tiles of the garage
reinvent this old house

it is more livable now
the hammock newly washed

the shoes newly brushed and
the table newly painted

this house has reinvented itself
into something more admirable

decent, confident, renewed,
this could be a start

as you must begin to recreate
what you once was too

do not be just yourself
go beyond what is admirable

reinvent your mind
dye your hair, polish your nails

scent your soap and
wash your hands.

you must have noticed
that in all my stories i am always the hero

precisely that is what history is all about,
the storyteller is the survivor, the victor

triumphant one
the mouth shall always tell direct from the horse.

it is a gift to see what happens next
the flash of an accident the death of the salesman

it is the sharpness of the mind the constant grilling
and sanding that makes you see what others don't

at night you notice the dance of fireflies
the formation of stars and the myths of their shapes

at dawn you hear the sighs of the wind
the untold stories of the crickets and the worms

the ceiling gets closer to your heart
the floors wait for your feet

this morning, the smell of coffer travels like a dragon
to your nostrils giving you more fire

you spit warmth, you swallow love
you chew affection, you discard pretension.

between the divine law and
the laws of men

between the id and the superego
the wall and the other wall

between the floor and the
ceiling


between sin and forgiveness
between my flesh and my spirit

lies the secret of my sanity
and like civil law there shall always be compromises

plea bargaining, the golden mean of Aristotle
between right and wrong, there is something

that must make us alive
for the meantime that this journey is not over yet

between my left and right ear
we must listen so we can hear

between two words are the spaces
these are places of compromises

at the extremes of pure solidity
there lies this stupidity.

a day goes beyond sunset
lengthened to a few meters
darkness dances under colored
neon lights
there is more to it even
than what i
in fidelity does: teaching a class
of law going beyond
precarium and mens rea
there was something more
in Oedipus and Antigone
the brooch that he used to
remove his eyes from its sockets
and roam the world as a beggar
holding only a staff and his
empty bowl
because even if he once was
king(destiny toyed what he is)
he sinned, and there is no law that
punishes him
he punishes himself.

their eyes turn round
the skies are gray
i hear the rain from the alum roofs
the class is dismissed.

and how do we know that God speaks to us?
invoke the beautiful garden
there will always be a gardener
even if you do not see the wind
but the rustling leaves can tell
that is God, appearing, manifesting
but i want him to use words, to utter
what i also utter, i want him, to speak my name
as a master shall call a servant at dawn

50 years i waited, and all i have are still metaphors
labyrinths, i want and pray
that God be literal, and candid and frank and
straightforward, as one friend would call me

hey Ric, what's up? did you give bread to the hungry?
did you visit those who are in prison?
did you check if justice is done?
did you care for the poor and the oppressed?

could be in one dinner when he sits with me
under the light of the fluorescent lamp
nothing about my imagination that he speaks through my wife
or through a visitor or through an event
or through an accident that did not happen
nothing like that, and in this case to be frank with you

God has not spoken yet.

a burning heart, he says, he has a burning heart
and i imagine a burning bush, as we wonder how come that
there is also an eternal fire that does not burn
and char anybody
a burning heart and it does not stop to burn
there is still pain in there, but the burning heart is never consumed
it burns love, and pain is always lesser
there may be no joy anymore, but the giving insists
everything, everything take them all away
that is the only meaning of the burning heart
always unconsumed, never charred, a stranger to the ashes.

one thing with thought is that it is fluid.
do you like them to be stones? the sculptors are
ready with their hammers.
one thing with flexibility is that something always
wants to remain open, a door for instance
sometimes to wait for the beloved it is never locked
till midnight
or that window that misses the moon
it never closes till twilight
for the love of light and cool air
some have to be apertures and orifices
my mouth is open for love my arms are unclosed circles
my heart grasps for air something in it is still open
in fact, as you have seen it,
in its unclosed state, it is still bleeding
my mind is open functioning as a parachute of my ambitions
my body does not actually mind what happens next
trusting in words, in another glass of red wine,
cherries for the tongue
the last one for the road, who knows?

a candle melts as fire gets too near,
water saves the drops
that fall upon the glass,
shapes of freedom are formed
melting ideas solidified by
cold and contained once
again in water and glass as the
man that owns the scene
finishes its work and
leaves.

the myth of sisyphus
somehow after 50 years
is no longer a myth.
the rock is as true as the
inclined uphill
climb

i breathe
and take some air
for i shall climb again
and put this rock
and roll it down again
and put it up again

i breathe
more life
and haven't mentioned yet
that death
is a reasonable option.

the walking days will still be there
sometimes we shrug our shoulders feeling sorry
the day is over
and one body is still stuck on the seat of questioning
forgetting that this is merely another walk
on some short destinations
arriving there we disembark only to be told
to walk again

it is not weird
it is. it is. it is.

it is.

let the days pass
let all the dreams ask

why are we still unfulfilled?
when will we become true?

let the days pass
let the mind be as busy as a marketplace

let the haggling be haggling
bargain bargain, compromises

let the days pass
let the hair on my head be all white

let the days eat me whole
and let me fade like a ghost

let there be none of me again
i have had enough

now i am hearing the rushing steps
of the fish vendor
towards the market
passing by the road fronting
my blinds

a busy day,
the red ant below my feet is at it again
finding some crumbs
of cookies
under the computer table
beside the swivel chair

i always have a word
despite,
the ant wonders
why are you doing this?

the nails have no feelings
and so are the feet of the chairs

the monitor is a eunuch
the room fills itself with so much mess

rambling books
scattered papers still unread

piling folders and
dusty nooks

the light brown curtains need
badly a laundrywoman

the walls are calling for a painter
and the floors yell for a scrubbing and mopping

this is the earth of being
needing an update a cleansing of some sort

a deluge perhaps
and what must remain must only be the essentials

a pen a piece of paper
discard the table and the chair

for man can squat
and still relate to what is bare and empty.

cold wind on my skin
from the sea and mountains
i am at the middle
and my heart is warm
i am unbeatable
i walk in the middle
buffered and
secure.

there will be no rain tonight
the stars are telling that

it will be as peaceful as a pond without herons
the fullness of the moon reveals it

there will just be two of us
as promises unfulfilled

tomorrow morning when the gate of the front neighbor squeaks
i expect darker clouds

i wonder, despite,
there are still no rains

weathers perhaps have emotions of their own
and just like ours

verily unpredictable
duped.

something short
and thin and crispy and
a little bit salty

a little sugar can make
a difference

inside the mouth the tongue misses
a pinch of bitterness

the taste buds want a complete
rainbow from teeth to teeth

something that is wet and
sticky

no one says
we miss the pungent moments sometimes

as usual the night full of secrets
hides its face from the candid days

the cover of the journal is black
the whiteness of the pages faded into an off-white disposition

what is not written there
if by chance these things fall into your hands must be understood by you

shall i say
we are riding in the same boat towards the same direction

yes, please, do not judge me
you have always proclaimed we are what we are and no one has the right to change us.

early morning eyes
fresh from their dreams

the mind recalls
the heart confirms

all the emotions still contained
vivid images in technicolor

the hands summon the fingers
write,write, write

strike while the iron is hot
cliche, cliche

now the thoughts rush like a flood
from the forest mountains

the fingers are adept at all these
one with the mind and heart

and so here we are again
slaves of our art

redeemed risen anew
maybe still cold and perhaps even frozen

thaw
melt only to be solidified again when the sun comes

irony of the mind
paradoxes of the heart

listen
to you i am saying nothing

it is for me
in the labyrinths of my confusions i am trying to find my way out

trapped fly in a bottle
buzzing for its wish for freedom

genie
wanting someone to rub its ancient lamp

if you let me free
you may have four wishes

and that is not just a promise
it is a contract

morning thoughts
tunnels without end lights yet

there is yet no exit
and so you still find me here in my own shadow

fog and mist
trails filled with tall grasses

up there is the house of my intentions
a figure waits but i do not know yet who

surprises surprises
anticipations of life

these are all the reasons
hazy as a refraction of light bending upon a glassy vision

his stomach is flat
on the sand
his feet away from
him
his left hand groping
for a rock
his right one
pointing to heaven
his mouth
tired with words
still say
go on, go on
even without me!

ed, you are 51,
and back to corporate life, and
i say, that is better now,
that go self-employed,
on a business that
sometimes fail,
i mean, with corporate lives,
busy like a salesman, hopping
from one place to another,
sleeping in different motels
with your pen and ledger
and sending reports through
your laptops,
the sin of self-pity and
idleness cannot be there
that is what i mean,
i do not mean those naked
ladies dancing on poles
those margaritas and
bloody mary 's,
the sin of uselessness,
the way others have quit
marking boundaries and
forgetting about maps
and directions.

the next time we see each other
you will always remember my smell

but i cannot remember you anymore
no matter how hard you stare at me
i surely, will not recall, those moments
are long buried, those nights on the grass,
the sunrises that i mark in your eyes
water on your belly, dew on your ears

i will try to figure out who you are on those
long stares, perhaps i may remember, or
i know i can remember, but you know the rules,
there is now a big difference between i can't
and i won't, it is the distance between an opinion
and the conclusion, between a suggestion and
a decision

more than ripe and juicy, the fruits have turned
dry, more like raisins, under that hot desert sun.
i feed on memories, but i don't stick in there.
i go for springs and brooks, they do not stop to rise
and run passing the stones, not minding the banks.

my mornings are good news
most of them are spies arriving at the house
giving me the secret codes in ciphers
and the whole day i spend my time
deciphering what my gods are telling me
do this, don't do that,
proceed this way, you meet this man
do not say your name, he will brief
you on something new and exciting
avoid the limelight, be at the background
see but do not be seen,
keep a low profile and work on the blunders
read the morning news again
and see if everything is done

Mr. anonymous, are you happy now?
on a cup of black coffee, and a paragraph on
page one of the Peninsula
shall your focus be. Tomorrow on the
Perhaps, and then on the hullabaloo
the Tallulah and the Shalna
and the Oh my God this can't be
but It Is, It happens,

Trafalgar, de javu , Javelin of Janus,
Spears of Spartacus, Sword of Damocles,

Where's the Golden Fleece? The snake woman
just escaped leaving all her eight children dead.

we always feel regret for those which are too near
our hands
and yet till our death
we have never for once
touched

perhaps the price to pay
must be greater
and we know we cannot afford
such a lovely
misfortune.

this is a bright day for us
the sun is mild, the air is 26 degrees,
the grass carry the morning dews
the flowers are fully dressed with their
bright colored petals to please the hours

inside the house the leather furniture
glosses over an event
the walls are painted white the beams
and trusses all yellow green
the garage is finally porcelain tiled
expensive tastes dominate here
time is short, the weather gives in
for something that won't last
and then the dirge marches in
a Sunday dress, beloved mourners
the prayers are sung, the candles lighted
another important shit is gone
in this far away town.

on certain compromises
we agree on a certain indifference
we may not let them know
that within us are the wounds
that never heal
the broken pieces beyond repair
but everyone in this big house
shall never know
what is real what is true
for they must survive just as we
want them to live well
we feed them fabricated dispositions
longer lines of smiles
well trained caressing hands
eyes without any conscience
the incapacity to tell which is
right and which is wrong
and they must believe that
there are no termites on the
ceilings and the walls
no cockroaches in the cracks
of those kitchen sinks
no scorpions underneath those
wooden floors beneath those
foul foundations

"well done" says the law.
we are just behaving that way
good citizens of this republic
deal with usual turmoils

"we are always ready to sacrifice"
we tell them with uniform cliches.

a duralex glass is different
it does not easily break
despite the series of falls
but once when you hit the
point of its most vulnerability
it breaks into pieces that
more or less
take the shape of diamonds

just like you when you go into
the most seldom sobs
diamonds are the shapes of
your precious tears

the stars above him

their silence speaks more
stories on the night sky

a man lies on the grass
looking for Andromeda

the rain starts to fall

she is a tiny yellow
butterfly
that hovers over
my ring finger
too fragile
i keep my fingers
open
throughout the night
long.

he does not know how to make long letters anymore
circuitous comments are strangers
in fact, he has become a one word man saying

thanks.

i let the darkness of dawn
fade away
as i sculpt metaphors
from the night that
gives me nothing

a restless night
an empty room
on dead lights and
dusty drapes

one from another world
could be another room and
another house
figures out that this must be
one happy world
of ponderous loners and
there are too many of them
worshiping the Word
bowing before no concrete
images
letting themselves be carried
by the fluidity of their own
thoughts: the three faces of time
its 24 nooks,
the fast ferries of its trips
hoping that one sees the
light houses in this dark moments
that in the following morning
when the sun is bright
one can see an island
one arrives at the port of destination
and then disembark
for good.

here,
the first thing in the morning is not a cup of coffee
but it simply sounds like that
it is cold as usual
and the heavy rain last night just stops
i avail for something that is warm
that must make me survive
but it is as personal as the
warmth in my own
armpits
nothing about a cup of coffee
it could even be the bland taste of my
own saliva
that i do not spit on colder mornings like
all these
keeping myself intact with my own
resources
nothing from the outside
nothing about cups of coffee and
toasted breads and
melting butters
it is the fingers that we press upon
ourselves
words that we play with our own tongues
inside our mouths
hugged by our teeth and
gums

there is a poem that looks like a map
the syllables are trails
and there is a word that sounds so
striking
and you equate it with the "x"
where the treasure
is supposedly found

and you keep it in your mind
always figuring
"x"

"x"

"x"

what is really "x"?

as a treasure you mistake it for
the usual gold,
the usual finds that pirates steal from ships
and keep in secret places
sometimes under the sea
sometimes in the desert but the marking
of the cactus is gone

the poem has a lot of them
but do not be disappointed
for i am no pirate
i steal none from innocent ships
no galleons
nothing about search and visit stuff

in fact, it is not a map at all

it is a park where children play
and where we figure out what next to do
we wait for a while and then we go
yes, to home.

at first the house is one kind of a party
more friends are coming
you even let the mailman to have a drink
and stay for a while
though he has nothing to say just like
the masons and some carpenters

then the house was almost burned
there was so much panic that day
the whole village talked about it for weeks

of course, the house as usual is silent like
most rocks
to regain its solidity
it listens to the refreshes of the sea breeze
it resumes its pacific nature
facing the sea and learning from the past storms

then something so horrible happens
but no one in the house is telling about it
the pillars shook and some walls gave in
a part of the roof was taken by the hurricane
but the house is still in tact


changes come into play
the gates are closed
the mailman is having a hard time pressing the door bell
the mail box is broken
and some thieves are anticipating that someday
they can get in and make their presence felt
perhaps to take
what is essential

what they did not know is that
no one lives in this house anymore
all the memories are put into boxes and kept in the cellars
the house has become one mummified pharaoh
a pyramid that points to the sun
the village only talks about the built-in mysteries

it is one kind of a cadaver surrounded by flowers
whose heart has been removed a few days ago

and then the talk stops
and that was only when the last prayer was said.

the beggar of a relationship is not blind.
his eyes are sharp, keen as the eagle's.

he may be limping, but his legs are perfect
for the Olympic marathon

he is in a pitiful state, not able to understand
that mutuality is a requisite for true love
that in happiness, two must dance the tango
of give and take, like cars enjoying the luxuries
of two way traffic, wide highways, accurate directions
on proper speed limits, full gas tanks,
good brakes,

and on long journeys, the luxury of having to
stop and shop
and find the best motel in town
enjoying the scenery on top
under the fullness of the moon
and the twinkles of the stars

in one moment, when a star falls
both of you, shall make some wishes.

when the academics failed her
she deciphers the labyrinths and
finds the exit door of this complicated
tunnel.

Not regretting love
she quits the books
she embraces love and
readies herself for
another chapter of
pains.

The truth is there is less
drama in happiness ever after.
Something that you cannot forget
is when the lover dies
and loved one survives and
at the end
loses herself to the island that
no one finds.

The ending is hazy.
The book closes on a misty day.
The writer says
I do not know. They are not real.

do not insist. God has a way of punishing
your unreasonable widow
persistence, the Greeks are warned
about Wooden Horses,
and Achilles' heels,
do not insist. Don't you know that sometimes
God grants prayers
purposely to punish
those who are hardheaded?
Pray what God wills you to be.
Do not insist.
God knows better
Before you were born
He knows what is in store for you
Till the last
breath. Till you drop dead.
So do not insist
Natural laws cannot be compromised.
Legal laws maybe.
Man made ones, those that twist
and pride on
Compromises.

Do not insist. Let God flow inside your
Heart. Let the seeds grow
As he sets the fertile soil
of the mind
As he gives the light in your
Sun.
As he prunes and cuts
and Makes you
The most beautiful tree
within the forest of your hair.

for craig

it is not the snow
you know its coldness already
you have experienced frost
and perhaps seen the movie about it
how painful can all these be
white, and prickly and
soft perhaps like a gentle flake
but you know how it gets too lonely
most of the time

did you say that you like someone
and then somehow that someone starts
to evade you as though you have
leprosy?

that is a mild form

leprosy used to be that antisocial
but you know that there is more
than what was
that....

Adenine
Infantrymen
Dementia,
Somnolence

take from it
or perhaps scientifically i once taught
you in our faded Physics class

in magnetism Craig, do not forget,
like poles still repel

and it has not changed since then
despite the blending of the
bends.

at the point somewhere between
loneliness and
independence, one settles on faraway places,
to see how things are
from a distance, and you find out

it is you that seeks the company of others,
spends for their drinks, caters for their caprices,
enslaved and deprived,
it is you that has behaved as the insufficient one
always begging for
a relationship, and you conclude that you have
always been
the lonelier one,
the insecure one, looking for others' entertainment
dependent as an accessory metal to
their diamond natures,

but it will only be for a time, soon
you discover it and fights back, i mean,
you begin to question your own behavior,

and you shy away, feeling guilty about your
weaker side, and you begin to build the fences again
to make a good neighbor
of yourself,

you write in your journal, i have always been
a defeatist, needing always the hands of others,
those that press upon me
choke me and had almost killed me
those whose arms have become ropes around
my neck

you quit. you ponder again.
you look at the stars at night and marvel upon
the distances of each
and their solemn silence
their pride and self-esteem
always whole, glittering,
against the darkness of the
universe.

you should have known that this poem is written
because the loading of the surfed cases sometimes takes that long enough
and so here i am
composing this, without much meaning and
seriousness really.

It is nice to be a turtle sometimes
slow and sure and humble and little
and be the river's best friend.

says the rabbit.

the little boy from the city takes a ride
on a cemented buffalo beside a nipa hut surrounded by
coconut palms on top of
green grass

the little girl wants to share the ride just right before the
camera finally clicks

imagining the protest of the snake that they killed yesterday...

if only the snake had a good tongue
and fairly a good speech training,
the one that they killed yesterday
for having invaded the fence of their
territory
snakes are not allowed to roam here
and catch for mice
or frogs,
it could have said, " i have nowhere to stay,
and i have no food out there"

the bamboo groves had been uprooted by you
our holes are covered with cement
the bushes are burned
the caves have been turned as tourist attractions
we are snakes
we too have rights
for food and shelter
and i did not come to bite your children
i only come
to ask for home
and there is none for me anymore.

the sounds of dislocated birds
(homeless ones)
mark my morning, here,

far beyond, the mountains are
denuded
the trees are cut massively
man's greed again,
the caves are invaded for some
kind of a need for bat soup,

slashing, something of that sort,
the saying goes, as God creates,
Man destroys.